Instead of an essay for an opening board or such, a poem dedicated to fire, by a daughter of fire.
Baba’s Child
Hedwig de Leon
By your gait I can tell; I know
when you are off for leisure, the pace
of unhurried cadence breaking
into a dance. It never fails to rupture
my trance: the leaps, stomps and pirouettes
of bare feet on yielding grass.
At times it is the certainty, the sure
footed march to war: I feel each inhale
each exhale each breath; never
labored always calm all ways
Quiet. The perfect backdrop
to your scream in the sky; the perfect
Silence soon shattered as heaven
roars with thunder and lightning zigs
and zags across the skies.
In a hammock on your back I lie
Cradled, nibbling fruits and nuts, wondering
Why? Why must you carry me in a sack
on your back even when you fight? Or hold
me to your chest while you snooze?
A shrug.
Great. Should I pester you for an answer, pelt
You with nuts, maybe? But then you
Opened an eye before I could: “Because,
You said, “you are a brat.”
“My brat.“
August 2010








































































































































